Cara Shultz - Spellcaster

“Don’t make it worse for yourself, bitch,” the voice said, more a growl this time than anything. It’s got more hate…

My eyes quickly searched the ground around me, looking for a rock or some other weapon. And then I realized something.

I could be a weapon. And it might be the only thing to save me.

I took a deep breath, letting my rage and fear saturate into every pore as I kept my fists up in defense. My palms got hot, and that burning heat raced up my skin, taking over my body as the edges of my vision seemed to get a little sharper. Just as the hooded psycho pulled back the knife, charging forward, I lifted my knee, extending my leg with all the force I could muster. As the bottom of my foot smashed into his stomach, I extended my palm, screaming out, “Emoveo!”

It was the spell Angelique had managed to make work—but had always failed for me. Until now. The figure blasted back several yards—farther than ever would have been possible by the force of my kick alone. He flew backward, feet kicking uselessly in the air, his body emitting a heat-wave-style ripple around him until he crashed into a tree about eight feet off the ground. My attacker slid down the length of the trunk, shredded fragments of bark falling around him as he collapsed at the base.

The hooded head jerked up, a blank black hole facing me. I didn’t need to see his face to know that we both wore matching expressions of shock. He jumped up—my muddy footprint front-and-center on the black sweatshirt—and raced away, deeper into the park, limping slightly.

At first, I was too in awe to move from where I stood, my fists still held up in their defensive pose. I didn’t know whether to cry or cheer or yell, “Yeah, I thought so!” after my attacker. I briefly entertained the thought of chasing him down—but disappearing farther into the park didn’t seem like such a bright idea. I pulled my backpack from my shoulders, digging in it until my fingers closed on the small pump of pepper spray Brendan had given me. I slipped it in my sweatshirt pocket—I didn’t know if it would work against someone in a mask, but better to have it—right as I noticed something glinting in the grass near where the hooded psycho had fallen. It had to be Ashley’s hair clip…about twenty feet away. Impressive. I looked down at the foot that kicked him, expecting it to glow or shoot lasers out of the toes. Instead my shoe was just a little muddy.

I bent down at the spot where the figure had landed to examine the shiny piece of metal. It wasn’t the hair clip. What it was set my stomach to churning again, as I squatted in the wet grass, staring at the very intricate, very fancy, very demonic- and evil-looking knife. This wasn’t just some kitchen knife, conveniently grabbed to mug unsuspecting teenage girls by a psycho in a cheap Halloween mask. This knife was special. Of course, the handle just had to be carved with a bunch of grinning skulls. I would never be so lucky as to be attacked with a boring old wooden-handled steak knife, would I? Noo…I get the skull monsters.

As if the psycho knowing my name didn’t clue me in, the creepy knife confirmed it for me. This was the evil Angelique’s spell had warned of. A sickly chill washed over me. Obviously, what Brendan was going through at school was just a nasty prank, one that would blow over—the real danger was after me all along.

I pulled my sleeves down around my hands and used my fabric-covered fingers to pick up the knife, willing myself not to retch as I touched it. I just hoped Angelique knew what this knife was—maybe the skulls were famous skulls, what did I know? She was the one who had recognized my medallion as being significant, after all. I had just slid the knife into my bag when I heard footsteps behind me.

I jumped up and whirled around, grabbing the pepper spray from my sweatshirt pocket. I shot a stream of the toxic liquid in the grass, right at Cisco’s feet.

“Whoa!” he shouted, putting his palms up and backing away from me, his eyes wide as he took in my appearance. “What happened to you?”

“I just—um,” I stammered as I held on to the silver pump. You just what, Emma? You just somehow used magic to disarm your demonically dressed attacker? And used your own unmagic fists of fury to punch his face?

I slid the canister back into my pocket.

“I fell down—you just scared me,” I said, trying to sound sheepish. I couldn’t exactly explain what had just happened. “I thought you guys went into the café?”

“We did, and then you were nowhere to be found, so I went to find you before McNelly had a conniption,” Cisco explained, looking at me curiously. “And then I heard screams and some kind of commotion.”

“I must have screamed when I tripped…and fell.” I shrugged, running my hand through my hair in an effort to look nonchalant. More likely, he heard you scream, heard your spell—then heard your attacker go smashing into a tree trunk.

“Whoa, your leg is bleeding—like, gushing blood,” Cisco blurted. Now that he reminded me about my sliced-open leg, it burned like I’d just set it on fire.

“You’re bleeding a lot,” he said. I looked down, and blood was pooling at the top of my white ankle sock.

“When I tripped, I fell onto a tree branch,” I explained. At least that part was true.

“Poor Emma, you’re having a really sucky day.” He pulled some napkins out of his backpack and handed them to me.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, wiping up the streaming blood from where it left trails down my leg, and winced when the napkins brushed against the splintered bits of branch in my leg.

“There’s your culprit,” Cisco said, pointing to the tree that just minutes before, I’d blasted my attacker into. “Damn trees. Don’t worry, I got a good description of the perp. Tall, skinny, really bad skin. Forces me to make bad jokes because you’re having such a craptacular day.”

“It was a funny joke.” I smiled weakly, thinking of how I actually didn’t get a good description of the actual prep. Not so tall, possibly skinny, penchant for cheap, ghoulish Halloween hoods…busted left eye.

“Do you need help walking, or something? You look really shaken, I won’t lie,” Cisco added, giving me a sideways glance. “You tripped and fell? That’s it? That knee looks brutal, Em.”

“Yeah, I just fell. I’m okay, though, thanks.” Out of habit, I brushed my grimy hands on the shirttails that were peeking out from the bottom of the sweatshirt then grimaced when I realized I’d smeared blood and dirt all over the front of me. Great, so I’m attacked and I get to look like a dirtbomb.

“Are you sure?” Cisco asked, his cocoa eyes twinkling mischievously. “I mean, what if I carried you? You could throw the back of your hand to your forehead and swoon. Give them something to really talk about.”

“Yeah, and you can have your shirt half-ripped off, showing off your man cleavage. Your he-vage,” I joked as we trudged up to the Cloisters.

“I’ll be all sweaty and glistening all over my heaving pectorals.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “They heave?”

“Please, Emma. They’re the heaving-est.”

“It’ll be like a romance novel cover,” I said, amazed that I was able to joke after everything that had just happened.

“Seriously, though, are you okay?” Cisco asked, looking at my disheveled appearance. “You look kind of a mess, Em. No offense.”

“None taken. My knee and my pride are hurt—and that’s it.” I grinned weakly, my mind still reeling over what had just happened. Part of me wanted to call Angelique and tell her she was right. So very, very right—witchy powers really are rooted in emotion, and in the past twelve hours I’d been more in touch with my emotions than most self-help gurus are. Another part of me wanted to brag that I actually managed to remember the pronunciation for Emoveo—it was in Latin, after all. Part of me just wanted to shout from the treetops that I just used magic—and my own inner kung-fu master—to disarm, and defeat, a hooded attacker. But then, as the fact that I was just attacked, on purpose, began settling in, all I wanted was to curl up in Brendan’s arms and stay there for a week.